When Fates Collide
by Langus
Summary: Killian Jones is a young Detective in the Boston PD struggling to make a name for himself. During a routine arrest he encounters a ghost from his past, a girl by the name of Emma Swan. Can he right a twenty year-old wrong, or does fate have something else in store? Captain Swan AU. Crime drama/romance. Rated for language and (future) sexual content.
1. Chapter 1

_When Fates Collide_

The heavy slap of their shoes against the pavement reverberated off the alley's ancient brick walls, making it sound as though there were thirty of them tearing through that narrow space instead of two.

"Police! Stop!"

He shouted the futile phrase with as much authority as he could muster. With a furtive glance back over her shoulder, the suspect quickened her pace. When did that line ever work? _Breaking and Entering. Possession of Stolen Property. Resisting arrest._ He added the charges up in his head, mentally calculating whether it was worth his effort to keep up the pursuit.

The girl was surprisingly fast and agile, seeming to vault over fences and squeak through gates without the slightest bit of trouble. She squeezed through a small gap in the wooden fence dividing the alley ahead of them, and disappeared from view. Using a pile of crates as makeshift stairs, he launched himself over the ten foot high blockade. The girl was half a block down on the other side, but not so far that she was out of reach.

The radio at his shoulder suddenly crackled to life. "Jones, where are you? Do you require back up?"

Bugger all. "I'm fine," he barked into the receiver. "Heading east toward the docks."

His radio crackled again and then went silent. In a flash of blond hair, the girl disappeared around a corner and he redoubled his efforts. Like hell he was going to be made to look a fool by some grubby, little thief who likely-

_WHAM!_

His back met the pavement with no small amount of force. He stared unblinkingly at the patch of inky black sky above while his mind did a brief internal assessment. He was alive. Nothing was broken. He sucked in a ragged breath and pain lanced through his side. Well, maybe something was broken. Or a few somethings. Damn. He hadn't even seen it coming. He took a few experimental breaths just to be sure his lungs were working before lifting his head.

From the corner of his eye he saw the faint metallic gleam of a lead pipe. Jesus Christ, why did it have to be a pipe? The girl edged closer, her movements timid and unpredictable, until she was standing over him with the pipe in hand. _Assault with a dangerous weapon. Assault on a police officer. _His mind added two more charges to her growing list. The girl's eyes narrowed menacingly and she looked as though she had every intention of finishing him off right then and there.

"I wouldn't recommend that, love," he advised and tried to sit up. He grimaced and stifled a pitiable groan as his ribs screamed in protest.

She lifted a brow in challenge and tightened her grip on the pipe. Shit. Why hadn't he asked for back up? His radio crackled to life and then went silent. The girl's eyes flickered to it briefly and he took his chance, capitalizing on her momentary distraction. He raised his tazer and pointed it at her chest. Her eyes went wide and she took a cautious step back.

"If I pull this trigger a whole lot of volts are gonna come rushing out and with that pipe in your hands you'll get a right nasty burn. So why don't you be a good lass and set it down, hmm?"

She glanced at the pipe in her hand and frowned. He'd never been good with persuasion tactics. His brother, Liam, was a natural at it. He'd talk some perp's ear off until the poor sap was practically handing himself over to be arrested and begging for forgiveness. Somehow, no matter what he said, perps seemed to do the exact opposite of whatever it was he wanted them to do.

For a brief, merciful moment it looked as though the girl might be reasonable. The bit about the pipe burning her was a lie, but he hoped she was as ignorant about science as most of the riff raff he hauled in. She was wavering - he could see it written all over her face. Then she did exactly what he'd hoped she wouldn't do and swung the pipe at his head.

His reaction was automatic – his finger pulled the trigger and the tazer brought her to her knees with 50, 000 volts. The pipe went crashing to the pavement and he slowly, achingly, rolled to his feet. He slipped his cuffs over her narrow wrists before she had the chance to recover and then painfully hauled her to her feet.

"I tried to warn you, love," he said apologetically as he pulled her towards the end of the alley.

He reached for the radio on his shoulder and it came to life with a short burst of static.

"Jones, here. Suspect has been apprehended. We're on our way out now."

"Good work, Jones. We'll see you in a minute."

The radio crackled again and then went silent. He could barely keep the sardonic smile from his lips. Barely an hour into the New Year and he'd been gifted with a collar and a set of cracked ribs. There'd never been a more fitting metaphor for his life – success one slow, painful step at a time.

oOo

The precinct was unusually quiet. The guys with families had been given the night off to spend it with their wives and kids while the rest of the lonely saps worked a double. Detective Jones strolled over to the coffee machine where his brother, Liam, was pouring a fresh cup.

"There's my baby brother! Heard about that collar - you gunning for a promotion or what?"

Expelling a long suffering sigh, he grabbed a fresh paper cup off the stack.

"Perhaps with a promotion you'll finally stop referring to me around the precinct as your _baby brother._"

Liam chuckled heartily and clapped him on the back.

"I can't help it if I'm proud of my little brother's accomplishments. How are those ribs holding up?"

He straightened, smiling through the sharp pain in his side. "Just bumps and bruises. Nothing I can't handle."

His brother studied him speculatively and his smile faded at the corners of his mouth. Perhaps he knew he was lying, but he wouldn't go so far as to say anything. An injury like that could relegate him to desk duty and that was exactly what he didn't want.

"Glad to hear it," his brother said finally, his smile returning. "That girl you brought in is in Interrogation Room 1 if you're feeling up to it. Watch yourself though, she's a bit feisty."

"Yeah, I got that memo," he grumbled, taking a sip of his coffee. He grimaced and added just enough milk and sugar to make it palatable before slapping on a lid. "I'll be in Interrogation 1 if anyone asks."

Liam sent him off with a tip of his head and sauntered back to his desk. There was talk from some of the others in the precinct, rumours here and there, about how it was strange for them to work together. It'd never bothered him but he wasn't so certain the same could be said of Liam. His brother had turned down two chances at the Captain's exam that he knew of because passing it would take him out of the A-1. There was always some excuse, some reason why he couldn't be bothered, everything but the truth.

Maybe it was because of where he'd grown up and the crap hand he'd been dealt, but from the time they were kids Liam had taken it upon himself to look out for him. First in the school yard, then at the Academy, and now here. He protected him, watched his back, always put him first. After so many years alone, it felt good to have someone in his corner but things couldn't keep going like this. Something had to give.

After seven years on the force he deserved the chance to stand on his own two feet. His brother would never agree, of course, but he'd find a way to make him see reason. It was either that, or put in the transfer request that'd been sitting in his desk for the last six months. Some days he wasn't sure which would be a bigger pain in the ass.

Putting aside thoughts of Liam for the moment, he pushed open the door to Interrogation Room 1. The suspect was there waiting, seated at the table with her hands cuffed and folded neatly in front of her.

"Sorry about those," he said sincerely, "but when you assault a police officer they become mandatory."

The girl looked up just long enough to fix him with a heated glare before returning her eyes to the table. Sliding out the chair across from hers, he took a seat and pulled out his notepad.

"My ribs are fine," he quipped with a click of his pen. "In case you were wondering."

The girl said nothing, though he was certain if it were possible her eyes would have bored a hole through the table. He consoled himself with the thought that she wasn't the emotive sort and felt the burden of her remorse internally.

"Do you have a name, lass?"

The silence in the room was deafening. Exhaling a soft sigh, he flipped open the manila folder in front of him and leafed through the first few pages.

"Allison…Rogers, is it?"

She flicked the hair out of her eyes with a shake of her head and coolly met his gaze.

"We have you on camera stealing some designer watches from a jewellery shop downtown. The owner is in the other room deciding whether he wants to press charges. Not the best way to start the New Year."

With a bored look, the girl rolled her eyes and glanced away. Her metal cuffs scrapped loudly across the table as she slid her hands into her lap. Coughing lightly, Killian made a few pointless notes in her file and then clicked his pen.

"What I'm wondering," he ventured, his tone softening, "is why a nice girl like you would steal a bunch of watches."

She snorted indignantly and sat back against her chair. "Try spending your whole life in and out of foster homes, or working an honest job only to get fired because a co-worker decides to tell your boss that you spent time in juvi. A lot of things can make a "nice girl" girl steal a bunch of watches. But hey, maybe I just thought they looked pretty."

The cool detachment in her gaze hit a little too close to home. His own eyes had held that same look once, long ago.

"I get it," he said, flipping his notebook shut. "I spent some time in the foster system myself. Lived in a _charming_ little red brick apartment down on Bond Street. Sometimes life deals you a crap hand and when it does you have two choices - wallow in it or rise above it."

The irony of telling this girl that she had to rise above her circumstances while, a year after the fact, he was still struggling to accept that his wife had left him wasn't lost on him.

"Based on our little run in earlier I'd say you're not the type to give up without a fight, so I'm going to give you the opportunity to help yourself - who told you to steal the watches?"

"No one," she answered distractedly and then, "Did you say you lived on Bond Street? 301 Bond?"

"Aye, that's the one," he replied warily.

She leaned forward, the links of her handcuffs clinking against the table. "What's your name?"

"Detective Jones. Killian Jones."

The fight seemed to evaporate out of her in a single breath. Releasing her hold on the table she sat back and shook her head in disbelief.

"It's not possible," she muttered. Her brow furrowed as her eyes raked over his features. "I'm guessing that about twenty years ago you lived at 301 Bond?"

It was a time in his life he'd prefer to forget, but he reluctantly nodded his head. The Bond Street residence, run by Donald and Arlene McCormack, had been about as far from a nurturing home environment as could be found in the Boston foster care system. Countless nights without supper, a dirty mattress on the floor as his bed, and days spent hiding from the bullies who lived in the building. He'd called that place 'home' from the ages of 7-10, before fate stepped in and he was adopted by the Jones family. If she knew of Bond Street, or God forbid, spent any time there, it was reason enough she'd turned out the way she had.

"I was there, too" she told him evenly. "Though back then I had a different name. Maybe you remember – Emma Swan?"

Killian blinked, momentarily taken aback. Emma…Swan? He hadn't thought about that name or the girl it belonged to in years. During their time on Bond Street she'd been quiet, fragile and always in need of protection. From almost the day she arrived they were inseparable – first out of necessity, and later because they realized they were the only family each other had. That was, until the day the Jones family had arrived to take him away. Without so much as a goodbye he'd left her alone in that place. A wave of guilt crashed over him and he swallowed hard, suddenly regretting his coffee from earlier.

Her expression of shocked surprise melted into a cynical sort of smile and she leaned back against her chair.

"Cry baby, Killy," she mused, reminding him of his childhood moniker. "Do the boys still call you that? Can't say I'm surprised you decided to become a cop."

His mouth went dry and he took a hurried sip of his coffee to clear his throat. What was the proper way to respond in this sort of situation? How does one confront a ghost from their past? He hadn't a damn clue, so he did what he usually did and fumbled along.

"It's been a long time since anyone has called me that," he managed, his voice rougher than he would've liked.

She responded with a snort. "I'll bet. It's good to see you again, Killian."

"I only wish it'd been under better circumstances. You didn't have to try and beat my head in with a lead pipe, you know."

She lifted her shoulders and a smile toyed with the corners of her mouth. Killian sat back against his chair and wondered what the hell his next move was supposed to be. He couldn't very well put her back on the street and it felt wrong to lock her up given the circumstances. Expelling a short sigh, he pushed his chair back and headed for the door.

"Sit tight. I'll be back soon," he promised, closing the door quietly behind him.

Liam was waiting on the other side of the two-way mirror, his expression troubled.

"What kind of interrogation tactic was that?"

Killian closed his eyes and rested his head against the door.

"She and I grew up in the same foster home," he explained. "Back then we were as close as two friends can be and then I…left."

"You didn't leave her," Liam reminded him. "What could you have possibly done at that age? This is ridiculous, Killian. Don't let her get under your skin."

He firmly shook his head. "Don't you get it? That could be me sitting in that chair. I could have turned out just like her. She's not unredeemable, Liam. She just needs a helping hand."

"She's not your problem and she sure as hell isn't some charity case you can fix. Listen, I know things haven't been right since Lauren left but this is not the way to deal with it."

He fixed his brother with a hard look, his jaw stubbornly set. His ex-wife was a touchy subject, one he didn't appreciate being brought up in the least. There'd been an unspoken agreement between them over the past year never to speak of her. Not after how everything went down. For Liam to bring her up now, it was obvious he was concerned but it only made him more determined. He'd dealt with enough crap in the last year to last a lifetime. He was due for a bit of good. Maybe that was this girl, maybe it wasn't, but he sure as hell wasn't going to let the opportunity walk out the door.

Recognizing defeat when he saw it, Liam heaved a sigh and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Always the bleeding heart," he chided, giving him a light shake as though to shake some sense into him. When his hand fell away and he retreated towards the squad room offering a muttered warning of "Don't say I didn't warn you" back over his shoulder.

Killian watched him go and scrubbed a weary hand over his features. Reluctant as he was to admit it, Liam had a point. This was irrational and reckless and foolish but he needed it. Maybe it was only misplaced guilt, but he felt obligated – no, driven – to do right by her. To take care of her the way he should have and couldn't all those years ago. Sure, it'd probably come back to bite him in the ass but he had to at least give it a try. What sort of man would he be if he didn't?

Pushing off the wall, he straightened his shoulders and walked purposefully towards the Captain's office.

_Author's Note: _The inspiration for this fic came almost entirely from a song: "Girls Like You" by The Naked and Famous. Check it out if you get a chance! I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far! Please take a moment to leave a review. I do my best to reply to all of them.


	2. Chapter 2

The lock on his apartment door turned over with a dull click and he hesitated. Bringing her to his place had seemed like a great, noble idea right up until he'd pulled into his parking spot three stories below and turned off the car. _What the hell am I doing? _He glanced back over his shoulder at girl standing behind him and offered her a weak smile. Emma Swan. He thought he'd never see her again and yet there she was, a ghost from his past and a virtual stranger.

Their eyes met and she smiled in return but the expression stopped just short of her eyes. _You're either stupid or insane – which is it? _The Captain of District A-1 didn't mince his words – he told you exactly what he thought and to hell with your ego. Most days Killian appreciated the man's brutal honesty, but tonight his patience had been sorely tested. Yes, he knew what he was doing. At least, he hoped he did. Yes, he was aware that she was a convicted thief who could rob him blind in the middle of the night. Yes, he knew the consequences if she skipped town. The Captain would have him chained to his desk 'til Christ came and he could kiss any hope of working with the SIU goodbye.

Hell, maybe he was crazy. He had to be to think this was a good idea. What sort of sane person stakes his career on bailing a woman he barely knows out of jail and then offers to let her stay on his couch? Maybe she'd hit him in the head with that pipe after all. It was the only thing that could explain his temporary lack of judgement. But it was too late to turn back now, so he pushed the door in with his shoulder and ushered her inside.

His apartment was a testament to the chaos in his personal life – the place was a fucking mess. Before Lauren he'd been fastidious to a fault. It used to drive her nuts the way he folded his underwear in the drawer and arranged the books on the shelf just so. All that had gone to hell when their relationship had. There just didn't seem to be a point to it anymore.

He flicked on the hall light and took a quick look around. The sink was overflowing with dirty dishes, some of them a week old, and the living room was no better. Every available surface was strewn with newspapers, case files and take out containers. He wasn't sure which was more disconcerting – the fact that this would be her first impression of him after twenty years, or that his apartment had, on occasion (usually after a run in with Lauren), looked significantly worse.

"Come on in," he said, suppressing a defeated sigh. He stepped into the kitchen and positioned himself in front of the mountain of dishes. To her credit, she didn't seem appalled by the mess, merely curious as her eyes glanced about the space.

"Don't mind the clutter. It's the maid's day off."

Her mouth turned upwards at the joke and she made her way into the living room. She took up a spot in front of the window and peered down at the street below. It wasn't much of a view – old trees with naked branches, apartments too close across the way, a street clogged with cars parked illegally on either side. She turned from the window and looked about the room, her eyes sweeping over the bookshelves, worn leather couch, old record stand, and TV.

"You've got a nice place here," she said sincerely. "I'm glad things worked out for you."

His face grew hot at the implication behind her words and he kept his head bowed as he tried to stack the newspapers littered across his floor into some semblance of order. She flopped down onto his couch with a sigh and studied the various manila folders strewn about his coffee table.

"These cases?" she asked while her fingers idly flipped through pages.

"Cold cases mostly," he replied.

"Why do you do it?"

"Because the families deserve an answer."

She nodded thoughtfully and opened up a folder. Her features paled as she sorted through a set of particularly gruesome crime scene photos and she quickly shut it again.

"Think you'll ever catch any of these guys?"

"Perhaps," he shrugged. "I figure the odds of that are as good as the odds of you telling me who you work for."

She snickered softly then gave up on the folders altogether and leaned back against the couch. Her eyes drifted closed and he wondered how long it'd been since she'd last had a bed of her own to sleep in.

"Would you like a drink?"

She opened her eyes slowly and gazed up at the ceiling. "What do you have?"

"Beer, vodka, rum and a bit of Johnnie Walker."

"Johnnie and I are old friends," she replied with a hint of a smile.

Killian headed to the kitchen and retrieved the whisky from the freezer. When he turned around, she was behind him leaning back against his counter.

"Care to pass me two glasses from the cupboard behind your head?"

Emma reached back and set two short glasses on the counter in front of him. He tossed a couple of ice cubes into each and then a splash of the whisky. He handed her one glass and then took up the other, holding it out to her for a toast.

"To old friends," he said with a faint smile.

Emma lifted a brow and her glass a little higher then took a sip.

They stood in silence a moment, neither entirely sure where to begin getting reacquainted after 20 years apart.

"Do you have a wife? Kids?" Emma probed, diverting her gaze to the pile of dishes in his sink.

His expression darkened and when he spoke his words were cool, laced with a bitterness he couldn't contain.

"Not anymore."

A fleeting look of sympathy crossed her features and just as quickly it was gone.

"Sorry," she said softly and he shrugged. "Where did you go after Bond Street?"

"We hung around Boston for a while 'til my father took a job at an architectural firm in London. Came back just in time for freshman year."

"That explains the accent."

His lips turned up at the corners and he took a sip of his drink. "What about you?"

"Here and there," she replied with a nonchalant wave of her hand. "The day I turned 18 they kicked me out of the foster system and I was on my own with no job, no money and no place to go. I made do."

It didn't seem fair. Practically overnight he'd been plucked out of that shithole they'd called a 'home' and delivered into a new life with a loving family and opportunities he couldn't even begin to imagine. Why him instead of her? His eyes travelled over her too-thin frame and guilt swirled in the pit of his stomach. She'd had to claw her way out of that hell on her own. There'd been no one there to protect her, no one to offer kindness or a helping hand. The world hadn't been kind to Emma Swan for no other reason than she'd had the unfortunate bad luck to be born to deadbeat parents.

"I'm sorry," he said softly and meant it.

She rolled her eyes and finished what was left of her drink, "Don't be."

She set the empty glass on the counter and he looked down at his own, realizing that he'd only taken a single sip. Tossing back the rest to catch up, he set his glass next to hers and filled them both with a little more liquid courage.

"Why are you helping me?"

"For old times' sake," he replied, his expression lifting as memories came flooding back.

Emma scoffed and snatched up her drink, "Whatever."

"Look, I know you don't have any reason to trust me, but I can help you if you'll let me."

Her gaze narrowed speculatively and she downed her drink in three gulps. She pushed the empty glass onto the counter and then took a step towards him. Her hands went to his belt and his brows shot up, the whisky in his hand forgotten.

"You help me, I help you, right?"

She offered him a coy smile that didn't quite reach her eyes and his belt came loose in her hands. Her fingers went to the button of his pants next, twisting it open, and then her hand wound round his neck, pulling his lips to hers. Her mouth was warm and firm and tasted of whisky. She tugged his bottom lip into her mouth as her body pressed against his, trapping him against the counter.

It'd been a long time since he'd been close to anyone. Not since Lauren had left and even before then… Hell, even his brother didn't know that. His hand pressed tentatively against her back, hardly daring to touch her at first, and then harder, drawing her close. Her fingers dragged through his hair and a soft moan escaped his lips. God, it felt good – too good – so good he couldn't think straight. His brain was struggling to catch up. Why was she-? Did she think-? The dots finally connected into place and he froze. The effect was immediate, like a shot of ice water in his veins. Oh _shit_.

Stifling a groan of protest, he gently but firmly pulled away and held her at arm's length. She looked up at him, her expression wavering between annoyance and confusion.

"What's wrong?"

"You don't need to do this. God, Emma, this isn't what I had in mind when I offered my couch for the night."

"Then what _did_ you have in mind?" she snapped, shrugging out of his reach.

"To help an old friend, that's all. I'm sorry if I gave you the impression I wanted more."

Her features lifted in a brief look of surprise and then darkened into a scowl as the sting of rejection set in.

"Go to hell, Killian," she spat, her words filled with malice.

Snatching the bottle of whisky off the counter, she took it with her to the couch. He exhaled, low and long, and drank what was left in his glass. The alcohol burned his throat on the way down but he could still taste her, still feel the heat of her body pressed against his and the fire thrumming through his veins.

He hadn't even considered doing that with her until her lips were on his and now it was damn near all he could think about. He glanced over at the couch and found her stretched out with his TV remote in one hand and his bottle of JW in the other. He supposed he could begrudge her the bottle. It may even help her hate him a little less in the morning.

He raked a hand through his hair then fixed his pants. There was exactly zero chance he was ever telling Liam this story. He'd never hear the end of it. With a reluctant look at his house guest, he retrieved a spare pillow and blanket from the closet and set them at the end of the couch. She kept her eyes on the TV screen, her jaw working furiously. Defeated, he bid her a quiet 'goodnight' and then headed for his room.

oOo

He dreamed about her that night for the first time in years. They were at the old apartment on Bond Street, sitting atop the stoop, inspecting their shoes.

"Hey, look! It's cry baby Killy!"

He looked up and saw their grubby faces leering at him out the window. Before she came that was all he heard, day in and day out, 'cry baby Killy', 'cry baby Killy'. The day she arrived all of that changed. She was new and still young enough to be vulnerable. The vultures in their building preyed on weakness of any kind. Their attention wasn't focused on him anymore, it was focused on her and he knew he couldn't let them hurt her. He couldn't let her go through what he had.

"I hate it when they call me 'Princess'," he heard her say sadly.

"Why? It's true, isn't it?"

She looked up at him, her green eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears.

"You're a princess and I'm a mean old pirate."

She giggled and shook her head then rested her chin on her knees.

"Come on! I'll teach you how to sword fight!"

They play fought with sticks, pretending to stab one another and die elaborate deaths. When he managed to knock her stick out of her hand she surprised him by tackling him to the ground. They laughed together, a rare sound in their neighbourhood, and then she kissed him full on the lips. He shyly kissed her back and when he opened his eyes they weren't children anymore. Her green eyes sparkled beneath him, flashing with mischief. Their limbs entwined, their touches anything but innocent. He buried his face in the side of her neck and sampled the soft patch of skin beneath her ear.

"Killian, please," she pleaded between moans, "Please, I need you."

His eyes snapped open and went immediately to the clock – 6:58 AM. Bloody hell. It was only a dream. He turned off the alarm and sat up with a groan. The sheets clung to the cold sweat covering his naked torso and he swiped a weary hand across his features. Twenty-four hours in and she was already haunting his dreams. That had to be some kind of record.

Dragging a hand through his hair, he managed to crawl out of bed and make his way to the shower. He had to figure out what to do about the girl on his couch. Once upon a time she was his best friend, his family, but a lot had happened in the twenty years since they'd last seen one another. She couldn't stay, that much was obvious to him now, but after last night he wasn't all that sure she'd accept his help either.

In less than half an hour he'd managed to shower, shave and find something respectable to wear. He wasn't certain what he'd find when he entered the kitchen. What he didn't expect to see was his sink of dirty dishes cleaned and drying in the rack atop the counter. Emma was sleeping soundly on his couch, curled up in the fetal position beneath the blanket. It was only then that he realized he'd fully expected her to steal away in the middle of the night. The fact that she hadn't caught him off guard, as did the fleeting smile of relief that crossed his lips. Did he really want her to leave?

Mercifully, good sense kicked in and quieted the voice that told him that her being there felt right somehow, and if he were being honest with himself he'd ask her to stay. Scratching nervously at the back of his head, he decided to occupy his mind with something more productive – like making breakfast.

Just as he was sliding the last of the eggs onto a plate she sat up on the couch, her hair thoroughly mussed.

"Morning," he greeted cheerfully. She groaned in response and stretched before dragging herself up off the couch and stumbling over to the counter.

"I made breakfast. Here." He slid a plate of toast, scrambled eggs and a couple strips of bacon in front of her. "I hope you're not a vegan."

She yawned and glanced pointedly at the coffee pot steaming and gurgling behind him. Taking his cue, he poured her a fresh cup and set some milk and sugar on the counter.

"I'm due at the precinct in an hour," he explained between bites. "There's fresh towels in the bathroom and some food in the fridge."

He glanced up but she was preoccupied with her coffee. She sipped it slowly and stared unseeingly at the countertop. Undaunted, he shovelled a few more bites of food into his mouth, hurriedly swallowed, then added, "There's Netflix, too, in case you get bored. I should be back around 9."

She lifted a brow and picked at a piece of bacon. "Long day."

He shrugged and slid his empty plate into the sink. "Sure, but with any luck I won't get my ribs beaten in with a lead pipe."

His pitiful attempt at humour worked. She snickered into her coffee while he scratched out the precinct's number and his cell on a notepad.

"Just in case," he said, leaving it on the counter. "When I get back later we can talk about next steps – getting you a place of your own, a job, all that."

"Sure thing."

Her flippant attitude caught him off guard and he hesitated between the kitchen and the door. He'd expected more of a fight, at least a token resistance, but she merely shrugged and slipped a bite of eggs into her mouth. Maybe he'd read her wrong after all.

"I know I probably don't have to remind you, but this is only a conditional release. If you leave this apartment without me, they'll haul you in to lock up and there won't be anything I can do."

"Sure," she said dismissively without meeting his eye. "I understand."

He wasn't entirely certain he could trust her to stay, but with the clock ticking and rush hour traffic not getting any lighter, he didn't have the luxury of time to dwell on it.

"Hey, Killian?"

He paused on his way to the door and turned back. Sleep had softened her; the hard lines of her mouth had vanished and her narrow shoulders had lost some of their rigidity. Even with her hair mussed and the remnants of the previous day's make up streaked beneath her eyes, she was beautiful enough to make any man stop in his tracks. Her eyes met his for a brief, meaningful moment, then looked away.

"Thanks."

Something in his chest fluttered and he stamped it down before it could take root. He couldn't get attached. Once feelings got involved things became messy and his life (and his apartment!) couldn't handle any more mess. _Too late_, a voice inside his head taunted, and he knew it was right. Retreating towards the door, he masked his momentary panic behind a too-casual "I'll see you later" then left.

The door slammed shut behind him and he leaned back against it, finding himself at war over whether to stay or go. In the end responsibility won out and his feet moved doggedly towards the stairs, but it was a hollow victory. He'd known it the moment he saw her asleep atop his couch. He was fucked. Well and truly fucked, and there wasn't a single prayer in the Bible that could save him now.

* * *

_Author's Note: _I just wanted to give a quick shout out to **edadaldal**, **ouatcs**, and **tayaboo72** for leaving me such kind reviews on the last chapter. Your words of support were much appreciated! I hope you all enjoyed Chapter 2!

Until next time,

Langus


	3. Chapter 3

"Should I call in the bomb squad?"

Killian's head snapped up and he turned to find his brother grinning down at him.

"What was that?"

"The phone," Liam said with a chuckle as he eased into his chair. "The way you were starin' at it you'd think it was gonna blow any minute."

An embarrassed flush crept up his neck and Killian flipped aimlessly through some folders in a failed attempt at looking busy. Truth was he'd spent the better part of his day checking his cell or staring at his desk phone willing it to ring. She hadn't called and he found himself wishing she would. Once or twice he'd even picked up the receiver and begun dialling his house line before thinking better of it.

"She's gotten under your skin, hasn't she?"

Killian sat back in his chair and expelled a long sigh, expertly avoiding his brother's probing gaze.

"I know what I'm doing," he replied evenly, despite the fact that he felt anything but confident about this.

Liam leaned in closer and lowered his voice. "All I'm saying is that I haven't seen you this worked up over a girl in a long time. Christ, she's practically a stranger, Killian. For all you know, she could be casing your apartment right now."

"Brother, would it kill you to once in a while have the slightest bit of faith in me?"

"It's not you I'm having trouble believing in," he admitted gruffly. "Just…be careful with this girl. I don't want to see you get hurt again."

_Again._

There it was – that one topic they'd had an unspoken accord not to discuss for more than a year and he was bringing it up for the second time in as many days. Lauren leaving him had stung alright, but not because he hadn't seen it coming. What'd burned him, the part that still kept him awake some nights, was that for nine months she'd been screwing his partner and he'd been none the wiser. It wasn't until he'd come home sick one day and found them limbs entangled humping atop his living room floor, that all the pieces suddenly fit together.

To say he'd lost control was something of an understatement. They'd forced him to take some personal time, his partner had been transferred almost immediately, and once he'd drunk enough alcohol to forget the taste of her, and burned enough of her things to satisfy his destructive impulses, he'd managed to return to work. Relentless whispers had followed him around the first few months. Everyone kept asking the same question – what kind of cop can't tell his own wife is screwing around? Not only that, but with your own partner for Christ's sake. You'd have to be just about the dullest tool in the shed not to see that.

And he thought for a while that perhaps they were right. But when you love a girl from the time you're eighteen, love her as resolutely as the sun rises and sets, when you have memorized every curve, freckle and imperfection and claimed it as your own, it never crosses your mind to consider that she doesn't love you back. When something like that happens your world just comes to pieces in your hands and there is no putting it back together.

"I can handle it," he ground out, aware that his ire wasn't directed at Liam but somewhere else entirely.

"Well at the very least she didn't kill you in your sleep. Can't say the IT crowd are going to be happy about that one."

Killian lifted an inquisitive brow and his brother tilted his head back and laughed.

"You didn't know? Christ Killian - half the guys in this building had a pool going. I put a 10-er in the "She'll rob him blind" pot. Guess I won't be getting that back, huh?"

A sly grin spread across his lips. "That'll teach you to bet against me."

"It was a sound investment," Liam protested and leaned back in his chair with a tired groan. "So, how'd it go last night anyway?"

"About as good as could be expected. We had a few drinks and went to bed."

Liam's brows shot up, "Together?"

"No, not together. She slept on the couch."

His brother chuckled and casually laced his fingers behind his head, "Always the gentleman, hey Killian?"

"Screw you, Liam."

"So what are you going to do about her now? She can't stay at your place forever," he said, his expression turning serious.

"I know. I got her a place through ABCD and a job with Jerry. All she has to do is show up."

With a few favours cashed in he'd managed to secure her a bachelor apartment with subsidized rent that wasn't too far from his place and an old academy friend had consented to take her on as a bail bondsperson. As long as she showed up, the job and apartment were hers.

"Think she'll go?"

He shrugged. That was the million dollar question. She was a tough lass and he doubted she would look kindly on anything she mistook as charity.

"Your guess is as good as mine. The Captain will have my balls in a vice if she doesn't."

Liam's eyes twinkled with mirth. "I'll ask Sarah to put an extra ice pack in my lunch tomorrow, just in case."

"Your lack of faith in me is astounding," he said dryly.

"What are big brothers for?"

With a shake of his head, Killian straightened a few folders on his desk then got to his feet. "Look, I've got some things to take care of-" he said, hesitating as he shrugged into his jacket.

Liam saw right through his paper thin excuse and waved him off with a sly look. "Go on, get gone. I'll cover for you if anyone asks."

"Thanks. I owe you one."

"Or twenty!"

Liam's taunt followed him out the squad room door and he waved without looking back.

oOo

He shifted his brown paper bags filled with the best greasy spoon Chinese in the neighbourhood into one arm and dug his keys out of his jacket pocket. Take out was the least he could do to make up for leaving her alone in his place with little more than frozen pizza and Jack Daniels for sustenance. He smiled a little at the thought of whatever biting remark she might have for him once he got inside.

It was strange, he thought, this feeling of coming home to someone. He hadn't had anyone to come home to in so long he'd forgotten what it was like. There was a sort of calming reassurance that came with the knowledge that there was someone waiting for you on the other side of the door. He managed to get his keys out of his pocket and put the right one in the lock.

Liam was right – she had gotten under his skin and much quicker than he ever could have expected. Maybe it was only nostalgia drawing him to her. Or maybe it was, as his brother suspected, nothing more than misplaced guilt. Either way, he hadn't been able to stop thinking about her and he sure as hell hadn't stopped thinking about the kiss they'd shared. Everything about that kiss had been wrong, he knew it then and he knew it now, but that didn't seem to matter. He'd caught himself thinking about what it'd felt like to have her pressed against him while her teeth gently pulled at his bottom lip, yearning for more.

He wanted her; wanted her in every way that he shouldn't. God, it was like he was being bombarded by every pubescent fantasy he'd never had the opportunity to develop and it was slowly driving him mad. Whatever happened tonight he would have to find a way to convince her to take the apartment. He knew himself well enough to realize that he wouldn't be able to resist her if she didn't, and that was exactly what could never happen. Not with her. Not ever.

As soon as his key was in the lock he knew something was wrong. He quietly set the bags of Chinese on the floor and pulled his gun from its holster. Those instincts had saved his life on more than a few occasions and he'd learned to trust them unquestioningly. A handful of years fighting off bullies and expecting to be jumped the moment you turn every corner had helped him acquire a sort of sixth sense when it came to suspect situations. It was the one quality he had that Liam envied, though if he knew its source he doubted his brother would begrudge him it.

He slipped inside the door, careful to catch it before it slammed shut. The lights were off and the apartment dark. He froze and listened, his every muscle and nerve strung tight. In the dark it felt as though the apartment was alive. It breathed and shifted, the shadows taking on a life of their own. When he heard nothing, he moved silently down the hall towards the light switch and flicked it on.

The small space filled with brilliant luminescence and he blinked against its harsh light. She's wasn't there, but the dishes from breakfast were washed and sitting neatly in the drying rack. He lowered his gun a notch and called for her.

"Emma?"

The apartment echoed his voice back to him. It sounded hollow and strange. That voice filled with fear wasn't his, it couldn't be. But he knew better. After all, he'd been in this place before.

Gun still drawn, he headed in the direction of his bedroom turning on light after light as he went. Perhaps she only wanted to sleep on something more comfortable than a couch. He was grasping at straws now, desperate for any explanation but the one he knew was the truth. His bedroom was empty as well; the bed perfectly made and just as he'd left it.

His eyes panned the room once more and settled on the floor next to his bed. His stomach felt like it was made of lead as he lurched forward and grabbed the lock box where he stored his personal firearm. It was empty. The open lock banged rhythmically against the lid, taunting him until he tossed it atop the bed.

Dread curled in his gut as he began a room by room search of the rest of his apartment. Every room held some evidence of her betrayal – his empty lock box, the open drawers she'd rifled through, the medicine cabinet with missing prescriptions, the false book he kept on his shelf laying open on his couch and devoid of the $5000 in emergency savings he kept inside. She'd left and made sure to clean him out before she went.

By the time he made it back to the kitchen, he was raking his hands through his hair in frustration. He didn't blame her, not really. This was on him. After Lauren he really should have known better. He'd sworn he'd never be anyone's fool again, sworn that he'd never let himself be vulnerable, yet here he was right back where he'd started –standing alone in the middle of an empty apartment, wondering how he hadn't seen it coming.

It wouldn't be long before the whispers around the precinct started up again. That was if he even had a job to go back to once the Captain was done with him. Muttering a string of curses, he pulled open the freezer door and grabbed the whisky. At least she'd had the courtesy to leave him one small balm. Taking a glass from the drying rack, he filled it with two fingers worth and took a sip. It burned going down, but it wasn't nearly enough to soothe the sting.

Bracing his hands against the countertop, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The anger was rolling off of him in waves, shuddering down the muscles of his back. When he opened his eyes he finally saw it – the bright pink post-it note she'd stuck to his counter. There, hastily scribbled in what he assumed was her hand, was a single word – 'Sorry.'

He stared at it with narrowed eyes, wondering why she'd bothered with it at all. It wasn't like it made a damn bit of difference. Crumpling the note, he tossed it towards the living room and out of sight. It wound up somewhere near the TV and he threw back another swallow of whisky. The silence that filled his apartment had a life of its own; it was so heavy he felt as though he could reach out and touch it. It did nothing to quell his anger and even less to distract him from the fuse hastily burning down inside of him.

Desperate for some sort of release, he glanced dismissively at the glass in his hand then threw it at the wall. It exploded, smashing into a thousand glittering pieces before falling to the floor. He watched the remnants of whisky slowly drip down the wall in amber-hued rivulets and felt a certain sort of camaraderie with his glass – they were both equally destroyed beyond all reasonable means of fixing. But he doesn't regret it, he can't. Because after all these years he finally understands what he never could before – what it felt like that day, so many years ago, when he left her behind and never looked back.

* * *

_Author's Note:_ Thank you to everyone who took the time to read this little fic so far and leave me a review. Your kind words have been incredibly inspiring! I'm sorry it has taken me a while to get this chapter out to you. I hope you enjoyed it! My song inspiration for this particular chapter was the fantastic tune "No Way" by The Naked and Famous.

Until next time,

Langus


	4. Chapter 4

She didn't move until long after the door had closed behind him. Through the windows the traffic on the street could be heard, cars honking, kids laughing on their way to the school bus, but a calm quiet had settled over his apartment.

She ate what remained of her breakfast slowly, savouring each bite. It'd been a long time since a man had cooked her breakfast. A smile curved one corner of her mouth as she washed her plate with the others in the sink and set them in the drying rack.

With Killian gone and nothing to do, the apartment was hers for the next however many hours until he returned. Curiosity got the better of her and she moved with slow, meandering steps from his kitchen to his record player in the living room. With a hand on her hip she flipped aimlessly through the small crate of records sitting next to it. James Brown. Simon and Garfunkel. Janis Joplin. Jimmi Hendrix. Pink Floyd. Pulling a record at random, she lifted a brow at the cover and laid the disc atop the turntable. With the needle in place the earthy melody of "Astral Weeks" and Van Morrison's raw, breathy vocals filled the small space.

Her foot tapped to the beat a moment and then she wandered over to his bookshelf. Head tilted to the side, she perused the titles there. It was an eclectic selection – historical texts, policing manuals, the odd cookbook, Stephen Hawking's _The Universe in a Nutshell_; she pulled a novel and flipped it over. _Captain Blood._ She cracked the cover and scanned the first page, her lips slowly lifting into a smile. He was still a complete and utter nerd.

The thought sent a jolt of warmth through her and she returned the book to its place on the shelf. Her eyes went to the art on the wall next and she tried to make sense of it. It didn't feel like him. There was something off about the colours and the cut of the abstract shapes. Or maybe there wasn't. What did she really know about him anyway? The man was practically a stranger.

Still, she couldn't escape the truth that seeing him again had shifted her world on its axis. For years she'd made a point not to think about the time she'd spent in foster care. That part of her life was over, done with, and couldn't be forgotten soon enough. If she could have surgically excised it from her memory she would have. But in a single night he'd taken her right back to where it'd all started, to a place she'd sworn never to return.

And while he'd made it out of that place and made something of himself, she'd never been given the chance. It was hard not to taste bitter resentment. Why him instead of her? Where had he gone after his new family's car turned the corner at the end of the street? What had he seen? In the blink of an eye his world had become separate from hers, a place she could not touch no matter how high she reached. And that was the reality of their situation; they may have started in the same place, but fate had chosen very different paths for them to follow.

The record crackled and changed songs, momentarily breaking her chain of thought. Frowning and hoping for a distraction, she grabbed another book off the shelf and flipped it open. For a long moment she simply stared at the stack of neatly bundled bills. As her mind instinctinvely began to count the stacks her hand snapped the book shut and she glanced at the title. _John Tracy's Guide to Nautical Knots. _What the hell was he doing with stacks of 100s hidden inside his books?

Curious, she set the book aside and made a cursory search of the others on the shelf. They all appeared real enough. Her eyes slid over to the book of knots and her hands went to her hips. She nibbled anxiously at her bottom lip. There was enough money in there to keep her going for a while. It wasn't enough to start over, but it would get her out of town. She could start again somewhere new. Take on a new name, a new cover. It's what she'd always done, since the day she turned sixteen and they kicked her out of the foster system. The law of averages suggested that with enough new beginnings eventually one would stick. It was a lie she'd been telling herself for the last decade. This next job will be it. This next identity will be the one. This next town will feel like home. It never was and it never did, but that didn't stop her from stubbornly trying again and again. And again.

She eyed the book once more and made a frustrated groan in the back of her throat. Picking it up, she stuffed it back on the shelf between his copies of _How Scots Invented the Modern World_ and Morrissey's _Autobiography._ Satisfied that she'd done her good deed for the day, she headed to the bathroom for a shower.

The scent of his shower gel lingered and drops of water still clung to the curtain. The towels he'd set aside for her were sitting neatly atop the counter, along with a new toothbrush and spare comb. He was a regular June Cleaver. She pulled the curtain aside and turned on the water. It hissed to life and she stepped back to undress. While the water warmed, she opened the panel of his medicine cabinet and assuaged her curiosity.

A day ago she'd woken up in a rooming house with no idea of what she was going to do that day or where she was going to go. She'd ended up stealing a bunch of watches. It was a stupid decision really, impulsive and rash. Had she thought about it, really planned it out, she could have done it without getting caught. But she'd become more and more reckless lately; taking risks, setting her sights on bigger and bigger heists. It was almost like she wanted to get caught just so she could have a place to call her own for more than a day. She smirked at that and turned his prescriptions bottles so the labels were facing outwards. Most of it was boring, run of the mill stuff. Amoxicillin. Penicillin. Pain killers. She raised a brow at the Oxys and Xanax, both dated from a year earlier.

"So, you're a little screwed up too," she muttered quietly to herself and shut the medicine cabinet door. Apparently even when you got out of that place, it still kept its hooks in you.

The shower was steaming hot by the time she finally stepped under its spray. She closed her eyes and allowed the water to massage the knots out of her shoulders and neck. Her mind darted back to the previous night. Her finger hooked into the top of his pants pulling him towards her, his lips on hers. She gasped and her eyes snapped open.

His rejection had stung more than she was willing to admit. The men in her life came and went, most of them fleetingly. She knew what she was to them and how they saw her. Most times she used it to her advantage. A less scrupulous man would have taken her up on her offer and had her right there, with her ass propped against the kitchen counter, but not Killian. Did he think she was beneath him? Too tainted to ever possibly touch?

She snorted and rubbed a dollop of shampoo in her hair. The steam filled with the tropical scents of pineapple and coconut.

What the hell kind of cop uses tropical scented shampoo?

She glanced down at the bottles neatly lined up on the shelf. The one she'd chosen was a fruity, tropical concoction while a darker bottle next to it boasted a "clean, fresh scent". It didn't take long for her mind to put two and two together. Tilting her head back, she washed the soap from her hair and ruminated over what Killian's girlfriend must be like. Tall? Dark? School teacher? Cardiologist? She felt a brief pang of guilt over her earlier condemnation of him.

He'd been trying to help an old friend, with no expectation of any repayment, and she'd put him in a position where no matter what he did he was an asshole. She shook her head and turned off the shower. Damn. But he'd still kissed her. Good intentions or not, girlfriend or not, he'd kissed her back. And that kiss had been… She glanced fleetingly at her reflection in the mirror and was surprise to see a smile on her lips. It was rare that a kiss left her breathless the way his had - breathless and shaken. Anger had been her only defense when he'd pushed her away, but now she knew the truth. And with it came an ugly reality – she couldn't stay. And he couldn't come looking for her.

She dressed with a solemn sense of purpose and hung her towels on the back of the bathroom door. Her eyes avoided the mirror as she pulled the medicine cabinet open once more and snatched the bottles of Oxycontin and Xanax from the shelf. Her next stop was his bedroom.

The bed was neatly made, the sheets neutral tones of grey and black. On the wall was a framed degree from Trinity College Dublin. Well, that explained the accent. She ruminated over how long he'd lived there before returning Stateside and dismissed it just as quickly. What did it matter? It wasn't like she was ever going to find out.

She opened the drawers of his dresser and rifled through each one, not really in search of anything in particular. There was nothing scandalous, no dark secrets hidden at the back of his underwear drawer. She moved on to the closet, pulling the sliding door open to reveal a row of navy blues, black shirts and jeans. Her fingers skimmed down the sleeve of one of his black dress shirts as she pictured what he'd look like with it on. Her heart gave an anxious flutter and she abruptly pushed the shirts aside.

There was nothing but an old tennis racquet tucked into the back of his closet, but on the top shelf was something far more appealing – a lockbox. All cops had a second gun they kept at home, even Killian. Reaching up on her tiptoes, she pulled the box down and set it on the bed. The lock would take time to pick, but it wasn't anything she couldn't handle.

She moved from room to room after that, opening drawers, rifling through his personal belongings. By the time she made it back to the living room, his copy of _John Tracy's Guide to Nautical Knots_ was calling out to her. She snatched it from the shelf and stole the stacked bills from inside. There was at least $5000 there, all of it neatly counted and arranged. She left the book open on the shelf. There would be no hiding what she'd done. No question of where she'd gone or why. That was how things had to be.

Even though he was practically a stranger, the boy she'd once known lingered in there somewhere and she knew he'd never let her go without a fight. He'd want to help her, offer her a leg up and she couldn't let him. The path she was on was a dangerous one. She was toxic, like poison, infecting everyone and everything she touched and he deserved better. He had a good life here. A nice apartment. A good job. A girlfriend. He deserved his little slice of happiness and this was how she would give it to him. He would be angry, and he might hate her, but both of those were preferable to the alternative.

The record had stopped playing. A muted crackle and pop filled the silence as it wound round on the turn table. She turned it off and returned the record to its sleeve.

Within an hour she'd taken everything she wanted – the money, the pills, and even his spare gun. She stood at the counter to tuck the gun into the back of her pants and her eyes fell to the stack of dishes sitting in the drying rack. Her mind went back to breakfast and the glimpse she'd caught of his shy smile as he'd served her eggs. A wave of guilt rushed through her and she looked away.

He'd trusted her completely and this was how she'd decided to repay him. She doubted he would understand her reasoning, even if he knew what it was. Her eyes went to the clock over the stove. He would be home in a few hours. She needed time to get out of the city, time to be somewhere else before she ever realized she was gone.

But what was to stop him from assuming he'd been robbed and her kidnapped? The last thing she needed was the entire Boston PD out looking for her. Grabbing a stack of post-it notes from next to the phone, she scribbled a hasty message and stuck it onto the counter where he'd inevitably find it. A single-word apology on a neon pink post-it note. She may as well have kicked him in the balls while she was at it. He would hate her for this. Hate she understood. Hate she could stand. Anything else and that's where things got messy.

Her feet were out the door before her mind could re-think or second guess or abide by its conscience. The door slammed shut behind her with a sense of finality. She closed her eyes against the sudden flood of emotions that constricted her lungs and made her heart clench tight in her chest. The pain would pass, it always did. She would leave him behind just as easily as she had all the others. Another convenient lie. She might have believed it, too, were it not for the tears stinging her eyes or the flames that licked at her feet, edging them forward until they were racing down the stairs of his apartment complex towards the street.

* * *

_Author's Note: _A thousand apologies for the delay in updating this fic. Work, a move and being gone most of the summer meant that this story took a back seat but I am humbled by the incredibly kind reviews and messages you wonderful readers have sent. Truly, thank you. The next chapter is written and just needs to be edited before posting. The wait shouldn't be long.

Until next time,

Langus


	5. Chapter 5

_You have – one new message._

He listened, eyes closed, with his forehead pressed against the plastic wall of the phone booth. It was Liam. It was always Liam.

"It's me," he said, his voice heavy, its tone having long since lost the cheerful energy underlying it. He hated himself for doing this to him, but there wasn't any other way.

"Look, I know it's hard to get in touch, but if you can find a way…"

His brother exhaled a weighted sigh and Killian opened his eyes, turning them heavenward to ask for silent forgiveness.

"Sarah and the girls are worried. They keep askin' after you and I don't know what to tell 'em. Hell, I don't even know if you're picking these up. I might just be talkin' to air."

He could hear the muffled sound of a chair squeaking. His brother was at the precinct then, calling from his desk phone. There were days when he missed it there, missed the comforting familiarity of the faces and names he once knew.

There was a prolonged silence, and then a barely audible, "Alright… Talk to you soon."

He slid the phone back onto its cradle and took a minute to collect himself before exiting the phone booth. Liam was a creature of habit, always had been. He operated like clockwork, calling him once a day, every day, to leave a message. Six months he'd been doing it, and in all that time he hadn't missed a day.

His brother was a goddamn stubborn ass, but those voice mails were his only remaining link to the life he'd left behind. He never deleted them just let the machine log them with all the rest. If anyone ever came looking all they'd find was an answering machine filled with concerned calls from his brother. Nothing to tie him to any of this, no evidence to suggest he knew anything of consequence. It was the way it needed to be if he was ever going to be certain of their safety.

At the end of this, if he wound up in some shallow, unmarked grave with his teeth and fingertips missing, at least there would be some record of the man he once was, a man worthy of being missed. He'd fallen so far... There were days when he couldn't remember where the truth ended and the lies began. He'd gotten so deep in it he felt like he was losing more of more of himself each day. Eventually there'd be nothing left and he wasn't all that certain he wanted to see the sort of man who'd remain when the rest of him had been stripped away.

But this was the path he'd chosen and it was the one he would remain on until this all was over – one way or another. Maybe it was for the best. There was little chance of him hurting anyone when he was nothing but a ghost.

xXx

It was the coldest January he could remember. The weatherman seemed to agree. They'd dubbed it the 'polar vortex', which was a fancy name for 'cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.' His balls hadn't dropped off just yet, but they were damn close. He pulled up the collar of his jacket to shield his neck from the biting wind. Go time.

The coffee shop was hopping with people for the morning rush. He bypassed the line and slid into a booth across from Richard Santoni. The man wasn't what most people would picture when envisioning the leader of an international drug ring. Santoni was tall and thin, with narrow shoulders and a receding hairline. He spoke softly and smiled about as often as Easter came around, but his eyes were sharp. They pierced you like an inquisitor's hot irons and missed nothing.

Santoni took a careful sip of his morning coffee and flipped the page on his newspaper.

"You're late."

Killian resisted the urge to glance at his watch. He'd made sure to be at least a few minutes late. It wasn't like drug addicts to keep appointments unless they were jonesing for a fix in which case they were at your place an hour early and pacing a hole through your porch.

"Sorry," he replied, careful to keep his head down. "I had some business to take care of."

"It's all sorted?" The newspaper rustled and another page turned. He nodded.

"Good. If it happens again, I'll find someone else. I don't like to be kept waiting."

The man wasn't bluffing. That was the thing about Santoni, he was a man of his word. If he liked you the world was your oyster. Piss him off and you were lucky to see sunrise. Killian swallowed hard and offered a shaky smile.

"It won't happen again."

Santoni looked up from his paper long enough to fix him with a stern look, then folded it up and set it aside. His right hand man took that as his cue to join them. Dax (no last name) slid into the booth next to Santoni. He was a hulking man who wasn't a pound shy of 200 and the proud owner of a face that only a mother could love. Killian wasn't certain whether it was on account of his size or a mere lack of good sense, but the man was impervious to fear. He'd stare down the barrel of a loaded gun without even blinking an eye. Santoni may not have been all that intimidating on his own, but he sure knew how to surround himself with the right people.

Killian's eyes shifted between the two men, trying to decipher why they'd asked him to meet. This wasn't their usual meeting place or Santoni's M.O. Something was different, he just hoped to hell it didn't mean his cover was blown.

"I've got a job for you," Santoni said at length. The waitress came by and poured a fresh splash of coffee into his cup. He thanked her with a nod and she strutted off to the next table. Killian leaned forward expectantly, but Santoni took his time adding a bit of creamer and a single packet of sweetener to his cup.

"There's a shipment coming in tonight," he said casually while stirring his coffee. "You're going to make the trade off."

Killian sat back against his vinyl padded seat. "What about John?"

"John's on holiday."

That was Santoni's code for "John's gone for a swim in the harbour." His eyes shifted to Dax's scarred face and he noticed a smirk lingering about the corners of his mouth. John had been the previous errand boy, the one who took care of the exchanges. The trouble with John was that he'd been in unfortunate possession of a big mouth. He'd barely been in the ring a week when the idiot had bragged to him about how he was skimming off the top. He'd take his cut, take a little more, then do the deal figuring no harm no foul. Trouble was Santoni had eyes everywhere. It was only a matter of time before he was caught.

"When am I meeting our contact? And where?"

"7 PM at the Rialto. Charming little place on Bennett Street."

There was something more, he could feel it in the way Dax eyed him down and in the way Santoni avoided his gaze in favour of inspecting the contents of his cup.

"What's the catch?"

Santoni lifted his eyes to his and smiled. "You'll be working with a partner. Consider it an insurance policy."

Bugger all. John's double dipping had made Santoni suspicious and now he was going to pay the price. How the hell was he supposed to maneuver with some hired lackey watching his every move? He put on his most convincing smile and forced a nervous laugh.

"Come on, Rich, you know I don't need a babysitter."

Santoni motioned to Dax with a flick of his hand and the giant hulk of a man slid out of the booth and headed for the door. Killian watched him go and breathed a momentary sigh of relief.

"This isn't a negotiation. You work with a partner or I'll find someone else. It's that easy."

Only it wasn't that easy. Eleven months he'd been undercover, six of those directly under Santoni's nose, and it was all about to blow up in his face. There was no middle ground on this, either he made the bust or he wound up dead. Almost a year of careful planning, six months of being so deep under he forgot which way was up, and now, when he was only weeks away from heading up the biggest drug bust in Boston's history, it was all about to go to shit because of a greedy piece of scum like John Handy. Fuck.

"So tell me about this partner," he said, managing to reign in his anger enough to sound annoyed yet casual.

"The best I've seen. Experienced. Intelligent. Knows when to be noticed and when to disappear. She'll play you like an instrument without you ever realizing you're being played. It's genius, really."

Killian snickered. "She sounds delightful. When do I meet her?"

Santoni waved at someone over his shoulder, gesturing for them to come to the booth. Killian resisted the urge to turn around. Whoever this woman was, he had no intention of letting himself be played. He'd gone down that road before and knew exactly what it got him. He braced himself, carefully schooling his features into a neutral mask of apathy. Her heels clicked loudly on the linoleum, audible over the constant murmur of breakfast conversations all around them. With a sigh and a toss of her hair she slid into the booth next to Santoni.

"Aidan, meet your partner. Evelyn, this is Aidan."

Killian looked up and felt his mouth go dry. The pair of green eyes that'd haunted his dreams for damn near a year stared back at him from across the table. What the hell was she doing here? Emma fucking Swan sat across from him dressed in a respectable pantsuit wearing a polite smile.

He swallowed hard and held her gaze, trying to determine whether she would blow his cover. Maybe he'd be joining John in the harbour a lot sooner than he'd expected.

"I look forward to working with you, Aidan," Emma said sweetly and then shook her head fractionally. It was barely even a movement really, not enough for Santoni to notice, but he saw.

"Same to you," he managed, his voice sounding rougher than he would have liked.

Santoni glanced between them and Killian turned his attention to the street beyond the window. If he looked at her now he'd give it all away and he couldn't afford to do that, not with his career, his very life (and now possibly hers, too), riding on the success of this operation. Fate sure had a sick sense of humour.

"So," he heard her say with significantly more enthusiasm than he could have mustered under the circumstances. "When do we begin?"

* * *

_Author's Note:_ Where do I even begin? A million apologies for the wait. Life has been offering me no time to write and it sucks :( It has been nearly a year in the story's timeline since we last saw Killian and Emma. Killian's working undercover and Emma...? We'll have to wait and see just how she's involved in all of this. Thank you for reading! I hope the wait was worth it.


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